


Stunt Driving

by sickfxcks (starflaik)



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Blackwatch Era, Blackwatch Genji Shimada, Blackwatch Jesse McCree, Emetophilia, Gen, Sickfic, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-28
Updated: 2018-11-28
Packaged: 2019-09-01 13:39:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16766224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starflaik/pseuds/sickfxcks
Summary: A mission going belly-up is nothing new, but sometimes the getaway makes capture seem like less trouble.





	Stunt Driving

**Author's Note:**

> seriously this is just an excuse to write puke and i wasn't gonna inflict it on the nice folks here on Ao3 but tumblr's about to go down the shitter and i need backups of my degeneracy ok.

“McCree, I am going to leave you here if you are not on this bike in the next fifteen seconds,” Genji’s voice crackles over the commline, sour and surlier than usual, and the threat is punctuated with the revving of an engine.

–

“Shit-fuck-piss–I’m comin’, I’m comin’!” Jesse barks back, turning a full three hundred-sixty degrees on heel with a startling amount of grace and lobbing a flashbang down the hallway behind him on the way around. He hears the loud POP as it bursts and the subsequent snarls of pain from the three goons tailing him–thank god–and a minute later his shoulder collides with the push bar across the exit door. An alarm immediately sounds within the building but fuck it, he thinks, the op was blown five minutes ago anyway and maybe the chaos of a real hotel evacuation will let them get clear.

Genji is waiting in the alley, hoodie drawn up to hide most of his face, and he doesn’t say a word as Jesse leaps on the back of the hovercycle and slings his arms around him. The engine screams to life and they take a too-sharp turn onto the street that only barely leaves them upright and sends his stomach flip-flopping. People are already pouring out of the building.

“Hold on,” Genji warns him, voice only a suggestion over the wind tearing past them. The warble of sirens rises from the direction of the hotel, and in response he guns the engine and takes another roller coaster turn onto a side street. Jesse’s heart leaps into his throat; the little hovercycle swerves precariously with every shift of either of their weight, threatening to roll. He clutches at the cyborg for dear life, goes so far as to grit his teeth and bury his face against the back of his hoodie to try and focus on something besides the awful jostling of the bike, and for his trouble nearly bites clean through his tongue when Genji shifts gears and sends them with a shuddering jerk into freefall over the guard rail of a bridge.

He spits blood and colorful Spanish profanity the whole way to the asphalt below.

They land so heavily he feels the entire contents of his stomach surge up his throat and only barely swallows it back down, slapping at Genji’s shoulder to keep him from speeding right back off.

“Genj–Stop–Gotta–I–”

“What is it.”

It’s not a question, but he cuts the motor and turns to watch Jesse slip pathetically off the seat and drop onto his hands and knees on the side of the road.

“Ffffffuck.”

The collar of the stupid pressed service staff shirt feels too tight around his neck, and he reaches up with one shaking hand to unbutton it–not that it helps much. His stomach still feels weightless, as though he’d never left the hovercycle, and he kneels there staring at a spot of old chewing gum pressed into a black splotch on the road sucking air through gritted teeth to calm his body down.

“You are ill.”

“Mighta… Mighta eaten a little much back at th’ hote–” the statement is cut off with a loud, sickly-wet belch that turns his face green. 

He can feel the eyes roll at his back.

“If you were compromised because you were unable to keep yourself from stealing food again there may truly be no hope for you.”

Jesse can’t even retaliate; opening his mouth feels like a capital-B Bad Idea, his jaw tight and clenched beneath his tongue. He does manage to lift a shaking hand to throw Genji the bird. It makes him feel a little better for the two seconds before his stomach warbles like a dying animal and he jerks his arm down under himself to press tightly to it.

“You were aware of our getaway vehicle.”

“Shut.”

“And your… particular sensitivities.”

“Genji I swear to Christ–”

Another gurgling belch rips out of him, this one bringing up strings of thick, sticky saliva that ooze to the ground in tendrils and trail the whole way back down his throat, threatening to gag him. He swears miserably and spits, tongue dragging over his lips. It doesn’t help. Even through the starchy material of his shirt he can feel the sickly churning of his unsettled stomach, and rubbing at it only seems to make things more volatile. The back of his throat tastes like acid.

He retches so hard his whole body goes stiff, but brings up only more air.

With an angry snarl he slams one fist into the asphalt. As though he weren’t already embarrassed enough he can feel the sharp, hot prickle of tears in his eyes, and he grinds his teeth in frustration. A series of deep breaths steadies him enough that he dares to open his mouth again.

“Genj, you can rag on me all you want later, but–right now I really don’t need that shit, okay? Ain’t got no fancy gyroscope-thing to keep my head on straight when we’re jumping off bridges like it’s a goddamn action movie.”

Jesse’s stomach makes another bubbling sound he feels as much as hears. He groans and falls on his side on the road, knees drawn up. Genji leans against the bike for several long moments, watching with an unreadable expression.

“You are truly unwell if you are pleading sincerely with me,” he says finally, and though Jesse screws his eyes shut halfway through he can hear the soft crunch of boots on loose stones as the cyborg makes his slow way over and hunkers down beside him. Everything below his ribs feels dangerously loose and tight all once, knotted up painfully. 

His voice is weak and tense when he entreats again:

“Genji, I mean it.”

“I know.”

A hand settles on his forearm where it’s wrapped tight around his aching middle, and Jesse dares to crack an eye open to see Genji squatted down next to him.

“You will feel better if you let it out.”

“Y’told me you’d kick my ass if I got sick on you or yer bike.”

“You are facing neither right now. Do you need help sitting up?”

He swallows and feels his stomach rebel against even that much.

“Nah… I c’n…”

It takes a disheartening amount of effort to scrabble up into a kneeling position, every little movement worsening the awful roiling in his gut. The disorienting feeling of rocking has calmed but his clothes feel too hot and his insides are much too heavy. Though he doesn’t voice it he’s grateful for the gentle push of a hand on his back as he half-crawls to the edge of the road over the sparse grass and loose gravel. 

The worst part of the whole ordeal is finally giving in and having his body refuse to cooperate. He splays one hand on his stomach, feels it give a disquieted lurch, but this time not even air wants to come up. For a minute he sits that way, too distracted by nausea to hear the rustling next to him until a half-empty bottle of warm gatorade is thrust into his chest.

“Whuh?”

“It was mine. Drink it. We do not have time to sit here and wait.”

Jesse gives Genji a pained look but accepts the bottle, barely able to uncap it for the trembling of his fingers. Normally it might help settle his stomach, but in his current shape the salt and artificial flavor are more foul than the taste of bile lingering in his mouth. The first heavy gulp that splashes into his stomach threatens to come right back up with a loud, gurgling protest that even Genji must hear. He fights through it and takes another thick swallow, and another, until the bottle is empty and his belly feels weirdly bloated–

And immediately he has to drop everything as it all comes rushing right back up. 

The first purge is all pale blue liquid, splattering the dirt and rocks, and brings a sharp, acidic burn all the way up into the back of his nose instead of even an ounce of relief. The second is considerably fouler stuff, the remains of dinner that have had time to sit in his stomach for awhile, and that sears like fire on its way up his throat. A dim part of him is aware of that hand still resting on his back, grounding, and he’d be grateful if he weren’t immediately onto a third and then fourth powerful heave, both of which add to the puddle of sick in front of him.

They sit like that for a good two or three minutes more until all he can choke up is thin, watery bile, but eventually he’s able to straighten up and sit on his bent legs, spitting off to one side to try and cleanse the taste of vomit from his mouth. his poor belly still gurgles unhappily, but now that it’s empty the prospect of riding the hovercycle back to extraction is infinitely less daunting.

“Are you through?”

“Yeah… Yeah, think ‘m alright… Jus’ had to get it all out,” he sighs, voice rough and hoarse.

“Good. You will be doing your laundry and mine when we have made it back to the Watchpoint.”

“Wait, what?”

He looks down and realizes with a groan that One: the knees of his pants didn’t escape the splash-back, and Two: there’s no way it isn’t going to get on Genji’s as well if they’re sharing a bike.

“Well, shit.”


End file.
